


The Miner's Manifesto

by Capricorn_Stellium



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Functionist Universe (Transformers), Gen, M/M, Mega Rod Week 2020, MegaRod Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capricorn_Stellium/pseuds/Capricorn_Stellium
Summary: After overhearing some comms between the main universe's Rodimus and Megatron, Functionist Megatron is inspired to begin writing as his counterpart did, with the aim of encouraging his fellow miners to seek something beyond their daily grind.Even the lowest people in the darkest places can be motivated by love.[Day Two of MegaRod Week 2020, Prompt: Trust]
Relationships: Implied Megatron/Rodimus - Relationship, Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: Megarod Week





	The Miner's Manifesto

**Author's Note:**

> After overhearing some comms between the main universe's Rodimus and Megatron, a young, Functionist Megatron is inspired to begin writing as his counterpart did, with the aim of encouraging his fellow miners to seek something beyond their daily grind. 
> 
> Even the lowest people in the darkest places can be motivated by love. 
> 
> \--
> 
> I suppose this could be counted as some kind of AU of the Functionist Universe, given how this would change things, but mostly I just really wanted Functionist!Megatron to know that there is a version of him that lives one hell of a life out there. Even if knowing that ultimately leads him down a similar, although not the same, path. 
> 
> In my head, if Functionist!Megatron started writing, due to the timeline it would likely only get published/distributed outside of the mines (or result in worker's revolts) after the Council is taken out, at which point he establishes a planetary network of industrial worker's unions and becomes a figurehead for Cybertronian rights. Not every Megatron has to suffer, or cause suffering. 
> 
> \--
> 
> PLAYLIST: If you'd like some music to listen to while reading this, or just want to know some of what my Miner!Megatron playlist is lmao, here are the songs I was playing as I was writing it: 
> 
> You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive - Patty Loveless 
> 
> Sixteen Tons - Merle Travis (1947) 
> 
> Ghosts of Mississippi - The SteelDrivers 
> 
> Too Old to Die Young - Brother Dege 
> 
> There is Power in a Union - Joe Hill 
> 
> Working Men Unite - Joe Glazer 
> 
> 9 to 5 - Dolly Parton 
> 
> Coffee God and Cigarettes - Mischief Brew 
> 
> Working Man - Rush 
> 
> Bury Me Face Down - Grandson

Megatron could hardly understand what was going on. 

He had heard the fight, as surely many of the others in the area had; Perhaps they were more cautious, as nearly everyone had left, terrified of being caught lingering around an incident by the Council’s patrols. Leaving was the smartest decision.

But he couldn’t bring himself to move from his barely concealed spot, standing behind one of the damaged walls that had been scorched and weakened by who knows how many of these strange bots as they… Did what? Why were they here? 

Megatron was aware that as a mining unit, he wasn’t supposed to be like this. Curiosity wasn’t an ideal trait for those in his class, it got them in trouble. It resulted in death, or sometimes, worse. But he had to know how it was, exactly, that he was standing before himself. 

This Megatron that he was looking at before him was taller, stronger, older. More experienced in the world, with a finish on his paint that indicated either fresh repairs or regular maintenance; This wasn’t a mech who worked in the mines. This Megatron looked weary, and surely with knowing life outside the confines of underground chambers, he had to have learned things and seen things beyond his functional purpose. 

The thought of it made his spark spin wildly, and he forced his EM field down beneath his armour, not wanting to give himself away. Not yet. 

It was definitely him. There was no-one else it could possibly be. What did this version of him do, then?

The others in this odd group were now milling around a bit, some checking on each other, some talking with a few brave bots he recognised from local wanted posters. Surely not a good sign, if this version of him travelled with criminals, but he had a hard time thinking that any version of him could ever do anything he didn’t believe in. He didn’t believe in hurting people, theft, violence. 

He wanted so badly to ask this Megatron so many things… Waiting for the rest of the group to gravitate a bit further away, start working on other things, he saw his chance when this older Megatron pulled up his forearm as if to make a call.

Was he fitted with those types of communication modifications in the future? Nobody in the mines had them, as the signals were often blocked by the chamber walls and the sheer depths of the adits in which they worked. Ore crystals and raw energon often disrupted those types of devices. He dared to hope that this meant one day he escapes the mines. One day, he becomes something more. 

This was his chance. 

He quickly flashed his helm’s floodlights at their brightest setting; The high beams intended to be used in the mines would undoubtedly give his position away, but angled as he was behind the wall, the light should mostly be directed towards this older version of himself. 

The flash cycle was the same as what was used to flag fellow workers down in the mines, typically to indicate danger or a potential collapse; Anyone who had ever been a miner had burned that flash pattern into their processors and would never forget it. This was a test. If this person was really him, he’d have a nearly instinctual response to this particular sequence. 

And sure enough, this older Megatron whipped his helm up, shoulders tense and stance widened as if to run out of the way of a folding beam. 

It was as good as any proof to him, although it also made him sad. It meant there would always be some part of him that was part of the mines. 

But nevermind that; This older Megatron was now looking him directly in the optics, swiftly walking towards him, calmly, as if to not alert those he had arrived with. 

It took hardly a click before his older self was grasping his shoulders, pushing him further back along the wall so that both of them could be concealed behind its damaged edge. 

The look on the older Megatron’s faceplate was firmly neutral, but his optics indicated some level of shock. They both had their EM fields carefully under control; There was no way to tell what he was feeling other than that.

And yet, more confident, it was the older Megatron who spoke first, vocaliser at its lowest volume. “Who are you?” 

“I—I think I’m you.” 

The older Megatron’s faceplate folded, the neutral expression gone, replaced by tightly but barely constrained waves of emotion. Ultimately though, it seemed to settle on some deep sorrow, the lines of mild fatigue in his faceplate more defined around his optics. 

He desperately wished he could feel more of his doppelganger’s EM field. Why would seeing himself in this way make him sad? 

The older version of himself ex-vented quietly, maintaining low volume. “We cannot speak to each other. The less you are aware of, the better.” 

This wasn’t going the way he wanted. 

He bit back his own distress, now. “Wait, please, I need to know. I need to know so much about who I become, how—“ 

“No. All you need to know…” They fell into a tense silence, the younger Megatron desperately awaiting any word at all. It made the older Megatron’s spark strain, seeing such a genuine, innocent look on his own faceplate from centuries ago. 

This young Megatron was undoubtedly him. Under the weight of gruelling work, permanently mildly dirty with dust and silica always packed into his armour seams, heavy duty armour weighing down on his frame… Back then, still, he could smile without anything hidden behind it. He had dreams, potential. The mines never beat down his spark, an achievement for which he still had the audacity to be proud of. And this version of him here and now was operating under that same duress, fighting every day the bitterness that claimed so many in the mines, in this universe dictated by a Council dedicated to his oppression, ensuring that this version of him may never break free of that life.

The greatest irony was that that same kind of bitterness eventually did claim him, far from the mines, despite all he had done to escape them himself. He didn’t want that for this young version of him, although he knew that nothing was ever set in hypersteel. It may be the case that this young Megatron takes a similar path… Would this version of him rule with a kinder servo? He desperately hoped so. 

He had to fight back the building dissonant effect in his processor; This young Megatron could never know about his inter-universe travel. He was clever, he would likely figure it out eventually, somehow. But for now, let him think it was time-travel. It was ever so slightly less difficult to explain, slightly easier to wave away as another impossible thing happening. 

After a pensive moment of silence, he continued. “All you need to know is that, if you stay true to your beliefs and who you are, you will never be wrong. Always remember your empathy, care for yourself and those your consider comrades or friends. Never lose sight of your greatest hopes.” 

“I trust you to make good decisions. If you know a mech by the designation Terminus, listen to him; He has important things to say. But always listen to yourself; Allow no influence to command you. Not even the influences you hold dear. Your spark shines brightest. Let its light cast away any darkness that pools around you, the way your floodlights guide you safely in the adits below.”

Young Megatron was observant, no doubt committing his every word to his long term memory storage. Good. 

It would have to be good enough, as Rodimus chose that moment to call him.

Quickly he answered; Their internal comms weren’t so effective in this universe for whatever reason, whether it was interference by some Council technology designed to track citizens communications disrupting things, or simply issues of range. He set the volume as low as possible, but there was no way to reply without his younger self present for the conversation. 

At the same time, he needed to know what Rodimus had to share. 

“Rodimus, be quick, and be mindful that others are listening.” He hoped his co-captain would take the hint.

“Uh, okay. We need to get everyone out of there, apparently local authorities have been alerted and they seem very much not relaxed about it. Our group is okay so far. Are you safe for now?”

“Yes, we are secure at the moment, but need a location to move to. It seems the sub-levels of the area may provide a viable safe pathway, but we will be in narrow quarters if we are intercepted. If you have coordinates for a meeting point, send them to me and we will make our way there; I will update you as we progress.” 

“Gotcha. Stay out of any more trouble if you can avoid it.” 

“What about your status, Rodimus?”

“Oh, we’re doing good.” There was some kind of shuffling background noise, a few distant sounds of laser pistol fire, and some vague shouting. “Now we’re doing good. Here’s our location. See you soon!” A shout of “‘Till all are one!” could be heard faintly as the communication line cut and closed. 

While Megatron ex-vented and looked concerned, though slightly bemused, his younger counterpart couldn’t help but be utterly fascinated. What kind of company did his future self keep? He liked the energy of whoever this Rodimus was; It was so unlike the fatigued, more depressed energy of most of those he worked with in the mines.

Megatron had to go. Things were urgent somewhere, evidently, and Rodimus had a tendency to downplay complications in order to try to reassure others. He saw through it for what it was. 

He straightened himself out, preparing to rejoin the group and get moving. 

Young Megatron was still staring at him intently. He had many questions, but decided carefully which to ask; He may not get another chance. “Who was that? A friend?” 

He considered his reply carefully. “Yes, among other things. He is… Proof that there is somehow still kindness in the world. There are people, rare as they are, who remain true to their simplest and best desires, which makes them strong. And makes others strong alongside them.” 

The older Megatron began to back slightly away. “I have to go. My team is at risk here.” 

He wouldn’t try to hold his older self here; It certainly seemed like an urgent situation, whatever the nature of it was. One last opportunity to ask a question. He had to think fast.

“…Do you love him?” 

“That is for me to know, and for you, possibly, to find out.” 

—

He spoke to no-one on his way back to the mines; He had never returned back from a surface excursion so quickly. Not willingly, anyway. 

There was no way any bot would ever believe him, and he didn’t want to be sent off to scrap or reclamation for suspected processor damage. Mechs like him didn’t get repaired, they got disassembled, and he’d rather not risk any suspicion by telling anyone what he’d seen. 

Instead, upon reaching his berth room in Chamber 93-K, he grabbed a data pad and tried to read to ease his mind, to process things in a less direct way… He was finding it difficult. 

The data pads supplied to those in the industrial classes all came pre-loaded with technical manuals for their equipment and maps of their working areas, which were hardly engaging, but he often downloaded short stories or articles whenever he had the chance and had accumulated a small personal archive. 

However, nothing was holding his attention. He couldn’t just vent off what had just happened. 

He was used to reading to relax, but eyeing the rarely used stylus on the simple table in his hab suite, for the first time he considered writing. 

Closing his optics and sitting on his berth, back to the wall, he let himself feel… Inspired. 

He wracked his processor, going over his memory files of his encounter with himself again and again, and sat in this trance for well into his recharge time. Day dreaming, wondering. Thinking about his future. How could he get there from here? His older self spoke of integrity. 

He picked up the stylus and began to write. 

—

My life as dictated by my function and as enforced by our society is to perform manual labour. 

This is the will of Adaptus, it is our life energy as formed from the All Spark. We are forged to drill and bore, take ore samples and shift mine tailings, until our frames succumb to the work or the conditions in which we are expected to die after a long life of gruelling service. 

It is a grey existence, spent in dust amidst the splendours of our labour that we will never own ourselves. We will never see what becomes of our work; We only know that our work never ends. 

We are told to trust in Adaptus and His will, to find solace in knowing we are fulfilling our functional purposes to the utmost, and that our wear and exhaustion and early deaths although the result of constant trauma and exhaustion are somehow a blessing from a benevolent creator. 

We are told to trust that our sparks were ignited and brought forth from the well or the fields, a miraculous event creating precious sentient metalloid life, which is ultimately led to die in a cave as the unfortunate and impoverished leakers and siphonists die in their misery while laying in the shadows of the most gleaming and brilliant cities, among the richest and most powerful of our people, and that this struggle is somehow our glory. 

I find no glory in corroding slowly under leaking pipes, hidden from both stars and ambient planetary light, the only sounds to be heard the shouts of my injured fellows, or the bellowing of an entitled pit boss who returns to sleep on the surface each cycle, or the ceaseless raging of drills larger than Titans which threaten constantly to crush or rend us under their might. 

We have the power within our frames, the dedication and skill, the fearlessness, to shift mountains and remove their tops following seams of indestructible crystal and toxic materials that would sap the strength from any other sparks. Yet we endure. We, the lowest people, are mighty. 

And yet, we are afraid to question our purpose. We are afraid to question Adaptus, or the Council with their furious grip.

We wake from recharge knowing that we may die any moment, every moment we are on shift, and yet we are afraid to seek more. We are afraid to seek the light from which our sparks came. But I refuse this. There must be more. There is more. 

Every day, there are holovids and news reports that let us know how much better life can be. How much potential each Cybertronian has to flourish and excel, if only given the chance. Why have our chances been withheld from us? We are not made of anything less. We are not worth any less than any senator. 

I must ask all of my fellow workers, a simple question, but one that is rarely asked as it rings hollow as a false hope: If things were different, if we were any other class, if we had the means, what would you want to do? Who do you want to be?  
Myself, I wish to be a doctor. Of course, no school or apprenticeship exists in this world under Functionism that would ever see me as a student or trainee. For those who know me and have seen me, all who have worked with me know my frame is strong. I am built for manual labour, supposedly. 

But this is where the argument falls apart: Wouldn’t a frame like mine, so capable of carrying weighty loads, be ideal for assisting larger or heavier patients, or those otherwise unable to move themselves? I could do so efficiently and without strain. Wouldn’t my endurance and heavy armour be perfectly suited to giving aid under duress or fire? In a battlefield, I could serve without wavering for far longer than many. Wouldn’t my larger size be ideal for shielding patients at risk from physical threats, or for protecting fellow staff from the blows of violent or disoriented patients? There are many times I have used myself to shield smaller bots from falling debris; Surely a rain of fists is no different. 

I could go on. But it is the lack of creativity, the lack of their willingness to think beyond what is obvious only to them, that draws the Council’s grip tighter around us all; They cannot see what we can see in ourselves, or what we can see in each other. They claim that we all have a clear function from the very moment we emerge as living beings, but perhaps we have all been defined only by the function clearest to those with no real view. 

Does the Council have the blessing of Adaptus, the power of divine insight, some gift that none f the rest of us have? Though it may be seen as blasphemy or chaos, I question this. I believe they have carved our society out from its original intentions, that systems of order and class are really only systems of control. The only thing they have that we lack is power, and that power is only held because of a hierarchy created by them. It is false. Their might is an illusion maintained only by our participation in it. 

We are more than our function. We are more than our class. We are Cybertronians, the same as all the others, and if it is true that Adaptus has inherently blessed us in our creation, then we must ask: Is this our purpose? Were we genuinely built to subsist, to do nothing but work and die? If so, why can we dream? Why are we sentient at all, if that is the case? 

We must trust that Adaptus has greater things in mind, for why would we be made purely to suffer, while others of our same species thrive? Why create the glories we know exist far above us, if we were made to dwell and toil below it all, to never experience any of it? 

Is is unfathomable to imagine a world in which we can perform any other task, a world in which we have a say in our lives, what we do, what we learn and say, what we think and feel, what we ultimately become and what our contributions are to our society? 

Have we been kept cowed by those who fear us, as we lumber over the senators and leaders who deem themselves higher, worthier, yet we bow our heads in contrition to who? For what? 

Our class is as mighty as our drills and machinery, our sparks are strong enough to endure endless cruelties and harsh conditions, our frames built to withstand the heaviest blows even while we run on low grade fuel and unfiltered energon which we produce in filthy makeshift distilleries from the crystals we ourselves uncover with worn servos, which we bear to consume on our longest shifts raw in shards and pieces, never enough to feel refuelled. 

They work us until our struts fail, our frames bend, our servos and pedes bent and weary, our paint greyed and stripped, our optics dull and devoid of the spark that Adaptus supposedly forged to give us life.

What kind of life is this? 

I ask you all, my fellow workers, these questions in good faith. I am not the only one among us who yearns and wonders, for our strength does not detract from our intelligence no matter what we are told. Our dreams are as real as theirs. And in a truly just society, ours would be just as achievable. 

And I believe, despite what we have been told, that our dreams are, in fact, achievable. Just not within the boundaries of Functionism. Not while the Council continues to bear down on us all. 

We are capable. We are many. We are in possession of the tools and resources we need, we have the knowledge and skills we need, we have the unfaltering determination to take what will allow us to truly thrive from the hands of the richer classes in their glass panelled towers and claim our rightful places in the society we contribute so much to, while we receive so little in return. 

But one fist raised is hardly enough. 

I call upon you, my fellows, my comrades. Mechs, femmes, and bots of all designations. All workers of all purposes, of all functions. 

One fist raised is hardly enough, but all of our fists raised in solidarity with one other, every vocaliser raised and making the same call for what ultimately are basic needs, will see us reach success in the face of our oppressors. 

Adaptus did not create us to suffer. We were not made to work until we die. 

Adaptus, instead, made us to be strong. 

And we have proven ourselves to be even stronger than that. 

Our purpose is to lift each other up on our tired, weary shoulders and with all the righteous rage and innate power of life held within our sparks climb and claw and fight our way to the surface, all of us or none of us. 

Our greatest strength is our potential to achieve freedom from this arduous destructive life, together. Unified, and only unified, can we reach the stars so far above our heads. 

Imagine, for a moment. Meet the familiar broken hope within your processors for just one single moment, and imagine your strength when combined with that of all the others within your shaft block. All directed towards this one goal, honed and refined like so much crystalline ore. 

Imagine our potential. 

And instead of allowing it to shatter your spark, instead of allowing that thought to be a weight upon already heaving and straining shoulders, allow it to fuel you as the energon we mine sustains the world above us. 

In the past few cycles alone, I have seen what is possible. 

I have seen, as many of you have heard, the Council faltering and wilting under their own mistaken and toxic rhetoric. The people are protesting in greater numbers than ever before, the factions increasing and dividing and increasing again as more and more come to understand that we are Cybertronians before we are our determined functions. 

Even those of other classes are entering recharge and dreaming of such possibilities, imagining other lives, new lives, different lives, better lives. 

Would Adaptus have made us capable of such thinking, would He have made us this way, if we were not to act upon such desires? 

I hesitate to call it a desire, for it is the barest minimum for a decent existence! 

More and more are becoming aware, are discovering that we are more than our lives as dictated purely by function. 

We are not our alt-modes. 

We are the small things we enjoy, we are the conversations we have once shifts end and cycles roll over, we are the thoughts and day dreams we have where our sparks are barest and boldest. We are our ideas, we are our happiest and lowest moments. We are capable of great feats, and none greater than love.

When was the last time we were afforded love? When was the last time any of us just felt plain, genuine love? 

It could be argued by Functionists that love is outside of the will of Adaptus, as it serves no quantifiable purpose. I am sure they have said things to this effect before, or suggested it through various further restrictions set upon us (yet never themselves). But does that stop us from loving? Love of all kinds, friendships and passions and relationships with those closest to us, those who inspire our sparks to roar and our processors to clear from all other thoughts, even to the point of easing our aches and pains, it is all innate. Love for small things, a plant growing in a heap of mine trailings or a beam of headlights that briefly remind us of a star’s unfiltered rays. Love in so many ways flows through us like energon; It keeps us alive, it it what spins our sparks, revs our engines, animates our frames when there is no other fuel left. 

They tell us we are not made for such endeavours, or thoughts, or feelings. That our sparks were forged for one singular purpose, one job, one role, one focus. 

But when you work, does your mind not wander constantly to kinder things? 

Even in these pits, we are capable of love. Not all things need a result, a product, a price tag. You cannot measure love in shanix, or weigh love on a scale. There is no end result other than the love itself, which sustains us more than anything there is. 

Love of another, of a memory, of a dream, of an idea. A favourite story, or song. A place that brings happiness, respite, peace. We deserve to one day achieve enough freedom that we can love unabashedly, love without fear or guilt or shame, love regardless of whether it serves some abstract perceived purpose or not. Functionism has poisoned us, like a malfunctioning oil filter or a tainted coolant. 

But we must think less in terms of functions and products, and more in terms of this love, which Adaptus has forged us with the capacity to hold and share. So surely, it serves a purpose, inherently. We know it does. Do not listen to the whip crack of the pit boss, and instead listen to your comrades, those who hum songs from centuries ago which have endured, those who shout fables over the incessant hum that vibrates through the rock around us, stories of our wondrous past. Reminders of our value, our might. Not as workers, but as Cybertronians, universally and without need for justification. 

As much as we love, we must love ourselves as well. We are told we are low, we are worth less, we are deserving of our mistreatment. I have done nothing to deserve this. None of you have done anything to deserve this. Internalise this, embed it deep in your processors and know that I am telling you the truth as best I can know it myself, as I have recently witnessed a love so strong it superseded time, it transversed realities, it spanned worlds: For all the might we have in all these other ways, we must never forget our strength is in love. 

Empathy, compassion, aid. I have been told, on good authority, by a person I trust more than any other, that these things must guide us. It will be a fight, and it will be difficult and prolonged, but on our path we must never lose sight of these things. Our optics, sparks, and servos must never leave from the best of intentions, based in our love for each other. Our hopes and dreams, desires and needs, must be our goals and motivations, but the only Guiding Hand is love. 

There is more for us than this endless dark, our laboured ex-venting highlighted only by the headlights reflecting off of clouds of silicate particulate matter, which accumulates in our vents and underneath our plating and corrodes us. A living death, sparks snuffed over centuries, our frames left to corrode and leak and rot to rust. 

We are alive. We deserve to truly live. The state of us, as we are currently, is unacceptable. 

As strong as we are individually, I ask you to find yet more strength in each other. It is together, as a collective class, that we will meet the pit boss with his own whip, that we will march back up through the adits, bring ourselves up on the shaft lifts and breech the surface as genuinely free Cybertronians: Free of function, free of class. 

Out of compassion, empathy, love, desire, speak with those in your shaft blocks and cells, speak to those fellow workers who cart the ore and haul the crystals, speak to those who drill and hammer, speak to those who create the beams which hold up the chambers within which we whisper and huddle, and raise your voices together in the name of a better future. A better life. 

We were not made to die. We were made to thrive. 

Trust in each other; We were made to rise.

Until all are one.


End file.
